The war with yourself

Dire Diarists! Graham here.

A few weeks back, I tried something new. Something called ‘body-centred therapy’. 

I’ve reached a point of desperation with the chronic vocal pain I’ve been struggling with (as well as generally feeling ill-at-ease in my body for the last... 30-odd years?). As I seek help through more conventional means, someone I trust suggested I try this particular person out - not to fix the pain, but to help me handle it.

‘My hands will listen to your body’, she told me, before I climbed on the massage table. ‘That’s all we’ll do here, listen to hear what your body is saying.’

Well alright then.

What followed was unexpectedly profound.

A ‘conversation with my body'

She placed her hands gently under my back as I lay on the table, and named out loud what she was feeling in my body. 

Sometimes she’d ask for clarification - ‘what’s that tension there?’, ‘what was that reaction?’

And that was it. That’s all she did. And yet…

Listening, not fixing

It was the strangest thing. 

It was like letting someone see right into those parts of myself I am so adept at hiding. All those ‘don’t-mention-them-in-polite-company’ feelings.

When she’d ask, ‘what was that?’, I simply told her, directly and truthfully. ‘Tension’, ‘dread’, ‘fear’.

But instead of feeling exposed, I felt seen, held. And I barely had to say more than a few words out loud.

Together we felt into the pain in my throat, but also the big feelings surrounding the experience of having a chronically painful voice. The grief, the desperation, the loneliness.

This wasn’t about fixing the pain. It was about listening to it, and all the feelings that go along with it — without judging any of it for being there. Somehow, with her steady presence there with me, I could leave aside the usual judgements and stay with the raw feelings.

After the session, she asked me how I felt. 

‘Like I’ve just made up with my partner after a *really* big fight,’ I said laughing. ‘But the partner is me.’

And I meant it.

I’ve been at war with myself, for so long. So many of us are.

Trusting the unknown

I ended up having three sessions with the body-centred therapist, each one offering another little nudge in the direction of self-acceptance. 

I don’t trust professional helpers very easily - whether they’re alternative types, or mainstream mental health experts. It certainly helped that, amazingly, I was able to voice this mistrust directly to her in our second session.

We were doing an exercise where the idea was to name whatever I was feeling, and then affirm my acceptance of that feeling.

Out of my mouth came the words... ‘I’m not sure I trust you yet... A part of me still wonders if you might be full of shit?'

‘Great!’ she responded, with a genuine smile. ‘And…’ she prompted, expectantly.

‘And… I deeply and completely love and accept myself’ I finished, both of us laughing.

'Huh', I thought. 'Haven’t said *that* to a therapist before…'

‘There’s no such thing as a wrong sensation’

At the very start of our first session, she’d given me what was essentially her mission statement. ‘I believe there’s no such thing as a wrong sensation. Pain, even difficult feelings, they’re an invitation to get closer to our own experience.’

‘Great!’ I said, then proceeded to launch into my pre-prepared spiel about why I was there in her office. 

I described this hunch I had. That underneath all my tension and tightness and pain and dread, there was something brighter and more joyful. If I could only get through that heavy stuff and find the gold underneath. 

I watched her face as I spoke - a single raised eyebrow - and I could already hear the paradox in what I was saying. 

‘The thing is,’ she said gently, ‘what your body hears is something like, “everything would be great if you could just fuck off and leave me alone.”’

'Will you come be with me?’

‘Whatever it is, the anxiety, the pain,’ she said, ‘your body is issuing invitations. Come here, will you listen to me? Will you come be with me? 

And the challenge is, can you listen to what it’s saying, without judgement? Without an agenda?’

We are not taught to listen to our feelings without judgement.

We’re mostly taught to deny our feelings are even there.

Calm down. Pull yourself together. Don’t make a scene.

It’s a useful skill. I genuinely value my ability to appear reasonably calm when I’m completely losing my shit. (A skill my dog Bodie has never learned, bless him, which is why no one can walk within 100m of our house without the whole neighbourhood knowing about it.)

It's just that, this has been my main trick for a long time. To pretend the feelings aren't there. I think I’m ready for a new approach.

Bodie, calm and relaxed. Thirty second later he was losing his bundle at the postie.

Stopping and listening

I’ve had a few pretty major life challenges these last few years.

I’ve spent so much energy trying to ‘overcome’ these challenges, I don’t know that I’ve ever really allowed myself to feel how significant they are.

To stop and listen.

It was only recently, recounting the story of my last few years to a trusted friend that I thought to myself…

Fuck. That’s a lot actually, hey?

Self-rejection

It’s especially hard to make space for difficult feelings when they don’t ‘make sense’. When we think, ‘I shouldn’t be so overwhelmed by this. I shouldn’t be feeling this way.’

Psychotherapist Pete Walker likens these judgements to a kind of “self-rejection”. We judge our own feelings, which leads to shame (‘I shouldn’t feel like this’). 

This shame can mimic experiences of rejection or abandonment from our past (‘everything would be fine if you’d just fuck off and leave me alone’). 

Which then leads to fear and further big feelings, and then in turn to more judgement and shame. 

When pain doesn’t make sense, it still hurts

Here’s the thing. When pain doesn’t ‘make sense’, it still hurts. That goes for emotional as well as physical pain. 

(As my mate Gareth once said to me, ‘of course your feelings don’t make sense ya dickhead, they’re feelings! They don’t have to be rational.’)

I think what the body-centred therapist showed me was that there’s another possibility. The possibility that I can be here for what’s happening in my body, whether it ‘makes sense’ or not.

‘Sweetheart I care about this suffering’

A line from Tara Brach that I’ve found useful here. With your hand on your heart, whispered to yourself:

‘Sweetheart, I care about this suffering.’

It’s not about fixing the feeling, or making it go away. It’s a moment to hit pause on the war with yourself.

To just listen.

When I can remember to do this, I think of it as a bit like that first tentative touch from your partner after a fight. That small, soft gesture that reminds you of what you’ve both momentarily forgotten. 

‘Hey… remember we’re in this together?’

That’s the aim at least. To be there for myself. Even when I have no idea what happens next. Even when nothing makes sense.

Will you come be with me?

Bonus Kittens

One of our dear contributing members (who help pay our mailchimp bills and generally keep this feelings boat afloat) messaged me recently to ask...

Hey where are the Bodie pics lately?? I only signed up for the Bodie pics!!!*

(*Not a direct quote.)

The answer is, Bodie the Big Feels Pooch is currently staying at his mum's place because... our backyard has spontaneously become home for SEVEN KITTENS. 

Fear not. Honor is currently in the process of finding homes for these kittens. But pictured above: Two Sevenths of our current Kitten Problem. Feel free to name each one in your heads. 

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